


Alistair's Predicament

by AndaisQ



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fingering, Grey Warden Stamina, Large Cock, M/M, PWP, Questionable Assumptions About Grey Warden Biology, Rimming, Threesome, Unrealistic Quantities of Cum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 14:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndaisQ/pseuds/AndaisQ
Summary: King Alistair Theirin is depressed. His royal guards help him with the miracle of cock. That's it, that's the fic.





	Alistair's Predicament

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2016 and have been too embarrassed to post it since then. I got tired of it haunting my docs.
> 
> (Cecil is indeed based on an existing character from the English literary canon. I apologize for that. Kenneth is based on two of his coworkers fused together into one unholy being. I apologize for that too.)

King Alistair Theirin, bastard heir to the royal throne and recently married man, stared at the stupid, beautiful face in his wardrobe mirror. Glumly, he ran a pomaded comb upwards through his fringe, taking it from inexcusable bangs to his trademark distressed-budgerigar spikes. He beheld the silly fucking outfit he was wearing, the one that made him look like he'd never held a sword in his life, and that he couldn't even put on without an attendant for the laces. He puffed out his cheeks and blew a fog onto the mirror, then after some thought, scrawled BORED in wobbly uppercase onto its surface. Shockingly, this did little to help; he was still bored. Bored, and frustrated, and- he didn't know what else. Something else deeply, deeply unpleasant.

With a forceful exhalation, he fell backwards onto his ostensibly marital bed. Anora, of course, had excused herself from it before the sunrise, and thank the Maker for that. Back when the Hero's merry band had been campaigning across all Ferelden, Alistair couldn't have imagined a woman more repellent to him than Morrigan; now, at last, he had found a champion.

He imagined a very small fanfare.

Alistair supposed he should think about his coming heir instead of the blonde harpy who was bearing it, but that was a dangerous road. Because while of course he loved the little... whatever it was going to be... he knew that it wouldn't be his first. Legally it would be his heir, some little sandy-haired tyke running around the palace to inherit his crown when he died, but it wouldn't be his first. _That_ honour had been taken neatly by the son-to-be of the runner-up in the All Ferelden Most Objectively Loathsome Woman Pageant, dear sweet Morrigan.

Alistair wondered if the Maker had consigned him eternally to awful, politically significant sex with women he despised, then gave up an apologetic mental prayer. _The Maker_, Mother Augustine had always chided, _is not for us to question. Question yourself, not His will_. But he'd been questioning himself for years, and nothing terribly much had come of it. He was still just as much of a spineless cretin as he'd always been. After Ostagar he'd clung limply to the skirts of a true hero, gone and fetched and killed at her order, and then been neatly parcelled off to the hell-bitch of his nightmares in some grand political sacrifice – but not, of course, before being bred like a hound with the _other_ hell-bitch of his nightmares.

King Alistair Theirin realized belatedly that he had begun to cry.

He tried to blink back the tears manfully, but found them too stubborn for that. Instead, he stood up, still sniffling, and resolved to go down the hall and get himself a nice glass of water. He strode over to the door, opened it, and found himself face-to-face with two liveried guardsmen.

Alistair sighed wretchedly. _Naturally_ he had forgotten that he had guards now. Guards who were trained to hear the slightest noise, including his little breakdown, and who were even now looking at him with carefully veiled pity.

"Sire?" asked one.

"Did you need anything?" asked the other, after a moment.

Alistair attempted to formulate the sentence "could you get me a pitcher of water, please?" without sounding absolutely tragic, and failed. Slowly, and with a certain dignity, he sank to the floor and began quietly weeping.

The worst part was how sympathetic they were – no, the _worst _part was how _efficient_ they were. They sprang into action, the mountainous man to his right bundling him up into his arms and back into the bedchamber while his tiny, scruffy compatriot ensured that no one had witnessed his moment of humanity. Alistair could not find it within himself to object to the indignity of being lifted and moved like a child; no one had carried him in a long time. It was too soon when the guard set him down on the bed, and he made a small, unhappy noise at the loss.

The larger guard looked at him with uncomfortable sympathy, then seemed to make a decision.

"Cecil," he said, "you take watch. I need to cuddle His Majesty."

Cecil (apparently) stared. "What are you on about, Kenneth?"

"He clearly needs it," Kenneth (apparently) rejoined. "Begging your pardon, m'liege."

Alistair made an exceedingly vague motion with his hand.

"See, the man knows what he wants. Go on, stand guard and tell people the King's not to be disturbed."

Cecil shot the both of them a dubious look, but left to his post.

Kenneth set to unbuckling his plate. It came off with the speed of long practice, leaving him clad in a simple linen tunic and breeches. "I don't mind being out of that, really," he confided. "You know how it feels wearing plate all day, don't you, Sire? You having been a Templar, and all."

Alistair nodded tentatively. "...warm."

Kenneth grinned. "Ruddy well so, begging your pardon." He sat on the bed beside Alistair, denting the fabric with his mass; he half looked the size of Sten, but with a coppery beard that Alistair had to expect would be against the demands of the Qun. With one broad hand he took Alistair by the scruff of his neck and dragged his head into his lap. Alistair noticed absently that he was, indeed, very warm. It was nice.

"...sorry about that," Alistair attempted after some time. "The thing. With the crying."

"Oh, come on," Kenneth said sternly. "Don't you try to pull that shit. Begging your pardon."

Alistair groaned. "Be pardoned, already, we'll get nowhere if you keep begging for it."

Kenneth laughed heartily. Alistair felt the movement through the back of his skull. "Well, as you say, Sire. But there's no use apologizing for feeling rotten. D'you want to tell me what's wrong? I won't tell anyone on you, promise."

"It's just..." He tried to think of a way to phrase his problem, and settled on "I have problems with my sex life."

His companion nodded.

Alistair blushed, but carried on. "I know that it sounds stupid, but I've only ever slept with women who I hate, and it's just not fun, and I don't even want to touch Anora but how else am I supposed to deal with the- the _urges_-"

Kenneth held up one broad hand. "Let's take this mess one thing at a time. First, it doesn't sound silly at all. A man has needs. Frankly I'm surprised you've not been out diving the Pearl every weekend, if Her Majesty is as chilly as it seems from my humble position."

Alistair shook his head miserably. "I don't want... that. I've known some lovely whores, there's nothing wrong with the folk, but I don't want to buy affection."

"But you're not getting it anywhere else, are you?"

"It's not so bad." He belied his point by shivering in Kenneth's arms, but he probably deserved some credit for the effort.

"It sounds pretty bad," Kenneth said. "But I can set it aside. Why can't you go out with some other girl, not paid, but just... interested?"

Alistair gave him a baleful look. "Bastards."

Kenneth winced. "Ah. Yes, I can see how that would be... a problem."

"Even if I used some kind of... protection... there'd still be rumours. If I have sex with anyone else, it opens the barn door for all of my horses." Alistair considered the aphorism. "Do you keep horses in barns?"

"Sometimes," Kenneth said sagely. "But that excuse only applies to women."

Alistair stared at him. "Yes?"

Kenneth looked back. "You could still fuck men."

Alistair's jaw dropped in shock. Then he closed his mouth in shock. "That's not... I can't do _that_."

"Why not?"

"I seem to recall the Maker being opposed to it."

Kenneth furrowed his brow. "To be frank, Sire, I'd thought you'd left the faith when you left the Order."

"I-" Alistair stopped. "Well. I did. But that doesn't mean the Maker's changed his mind."

"What's that to you, then? My old gran never changed her mind about it either, but she's no concern of yours. And I don't hear you arguing that you don't like men."

Alistair wracked his brain. Slowly it became clear to him that Kenneth was not wrong. He had, in fact, abandoned his faith. Andraste no longer held his allegiance; the Maker seemed as plausible as ever, which was not particularly. In the Chantry he'd always had an eye for other boys, but he'd always kept up these walls, out of... what? Inertia?

"Well," he said. "I suppose I haven't, at that."

Kenneth nodded decisively. "There's your answer, then. Men can't bear you bastards, not unless you get a very special man."

"Where'm I supposed to find a man who likes it, though?" Alistair asked plaintively. "I can't exactly put up a poster, and I've still got no taste for whores."

There was a pause. "I am," Kenneth said slowly, "employed to serve you however I am commanded."

Alistair flinched. "You have a _wife_, Kenneth. I've heard you talk about her."

Kenneth shrugged. "We've got an arrangement. She gets to go out with her girls, I get to have fun at my post. Usually it's with Cecil, but she did mention that if I bedded the King she wouldn't complain." He considered. "Mind you, she was probably being sarcastic, but knowing her, she'll be thrilled."

Courteously, Kenneth fell silent so that Alistair could take a moment to process the quantities of new information he had just dropped on him. One: that happy marriages could in fact exist, though perhaps only for people not involved in politics. Two: that arrangements of this type could be made and not destabilize such a relationship, perhaps even strengthening it. Three: that Kenneth was offering to sleep with him. Four: the fact that he liked men, which had only recently been remembered and felt it deserved a bit more attention.

After a few long minutes, Alistair spoke. "Alright," he said, nerves knotting in his throat. "If we're going to do this, then let's do it."

Kenneth moved Alistair casually, sitting him upright on the bed, and stood to his full height. He unlaced his tunic slowly, revealing a thickly red-furred chest. Finally he pulled it over his head, leaving him standing before his king in only a patently insufficient loincloth.

"Traditionally, my liege, both of us would be naked," he prompted gently.

Alistair flushed brick-red. "I... don't actually know how to get out of this outfit on my own." He plucked at the intricately arrayed buttons and laces despairingly.

His partner laughed heartily, bending down to assist. "Well, it's good you've got me here." He slipped the buttons and pulled the laces with a delicate touch that belied his massive size, eventually sliding the garment open and over Alistair's shoulders. Alistair shivered, left with only his thin cotton shirt and leggings against the cool drafts of the tower room. He felt his nipples harden, and blushed brighter.

Though Alistair didn't need the help, Kenneth unlaced his boots as well, slipping them off and deftly slipping off the shirt and trousers shortly after. It made Alistair feel helpless, childlike; he looked down at his nearly hairless body, lean and seemingly slim against Kenneth's bulk, and the loincloth that, while hardly empty, did not bulge and strain against his flesh like the other man's did now that he was aroused.

Kenneth looked with him, and grinned. "Each man is given his gifts. Yours is the divine right of kings. Mine is the cock of a Titan."

"I'd trade you the crown," Alistair murmured. "How _big_ is that thing?"

"More'n half a cubit," Kenneth said. "Three or four palms, by the numbers. Rare's the woman or the man who can take it. Even at the Pearl, there's few with the skill. But many with the ambition."

"Well, I'm one of the ambitious ones," Alistair said decisively. "I'll get that thing inside me if it kills me. I'm to have an heir soon; I can take that kind of risk."

Kenneth chuckled. "We'll work on it if you like, Sire. Start with Cecil, perhaps. He stands proud at a palm and a bit; it's simpler with him."

Alistair considered. "Would he come in now, d'you think? For my first time."

Kenneth immediately went to rap on the doorframe. Cecil's head peeked around the corner. "Thank the Maker, it's boring standing th- why're you bloody naked?" He glanced over at Alistair, kneeling on the bed anxiously in his smallclothes. "Are you shagging His bloody Majesty?"

"Yes," Kenneth said. "But given my, erm, proportions, we thought it best he start with someone a bit more... manageable."

"That'd be me, alright," Cecil said, looking appraisingly at his king. "Want a little tutorial, eh? Fine, then. Let no one ever say that old Cecil never made sacrifices for the Crown."

He shrugged out of his armour, which must have been much looser than Kenneth's; under it, he was naked as a jaybird, and covered in wiry black hair. "Nice to have a little breeze," he explained, pulling on his undersized prick. "You two going to take off those smalls anytime soon, or are we getting complicated?"

Alistair quickly untied his loincloth, revealing a more than respectable erection, and watched Kenneth in eager anticipation. Slowly, the enormous guardsman pulled down his own arousal-damp cloth, dragging his mountainous package down with it. Inch by inch, his fiery bush revealed itself. All of a sudden, the tension broke; his member was released, and it slammed up onto his belly with a thunderclap, flinging strings of clear fluid onto Cecil and Alistair as it swung.

Alistair's mouth fell open in sheer awe. A droplet of Kenneth's precum landed on his tongue, and he tasted the barest glimpse of salt and musk. Without consciously thinking about it, his hand reached towards the monster before him. Trembling, he wrapped one hand around the straining length of it. It was hot to his touch, smooth-skinned and thrumming with blood. He pulled towards himself experimentally, and Kenneth's foreskin collected loosely around the head. He pushed it back, and the skin tightened and strained against itself. The wide slit oozed a small pool of liquid onto the back of his hand, Kenneth groaning with pleasure. Alistair, unwilling to let go but desperate for more of the stuff, bent over and licked the mess off his own skin. It clung to his palate like honey.

This close to the beast, Alistair could feel the warmth radiating onto his face. He inhaled the overpowering scent of sweat and soap and _man._

"Go on," Kenneth said quietly.

Slowly, Alistair put his mouth on it. He shivered with the sensation of silk-smooth skin touching his lips and his tongue. He began to investigate its lines and curves, both hands clutching on for dear life.

Abruptly, he felt hot breath against his arse. His head whipped around in shock, revealing that Cecil had grown tired of waiting and spread him open, and was now leaning in. Alistair felt stubble against his cheeks and a wet tongue lapping at his hole.

"What are you doing?!" he squeaked.

Cecil looked up from his task with a condescending squint. "What exactly does it look like I'm doing? I'm licking your arsehole."

"Yeah, that part was fairly clear, actually! _Why _are you doing that!"

"Give him a minute to work and you'll see," Kenneth advised.

Cecil turned back to it, using his mouth deftly to explore the topography of Alistair's heretofore uncharted crack. Alistair squirmed, feeling the wet of Cecil's tongue and the scratch of his chin against the line between his hole and his tightening balls. He moaned despite himself, and found that while he wasn't looking, his cock had begun to drool profusely. Cecil unhesitatingly grabbed Alistair's erection and began stroking it firmly, even as he buried his face in his arse and redoubled his efforts.

Alistair came with a shout, ropes of cum spattering over Cecil's hands and the trunk of Kenneth's leg. His cock swung back and forth, spraying everything between the bedspread under his knees and the underside of his own chin with a thick coating of white spunk over the next ten seconds.

Cecil, dazed, brought his hand to his lips. It dripped down his front. "Fuck," he said admiringly.

"It's been like that... ever since my Joining," Alistair panted, his face still red. "I just... keep going."

Kenneth gathered Alistair up and sat him on the less sticky of his knees. "It is impressive," he said thoughtfully. "And how's your recovery time?"

Alistair leaned into the fuzz of the guard's chest. "Don't have one. I get a bit sleepy, but I'm still ready to go." He jerked at his still-solid rod as an object demonstration. "Joining the Grey has its perks."

Cecil stared at the pool on the bedspread. "You mean we could get another one of those?"

"Yeah. I don't usually slow down until the fourth or fifth time."

Without another word, Cecil descended on Alistair's cock. He gently squeezed Alistair's balls with a practised grasp as he licked and sucked and nipped his way down the shaft; Alistair felt worshipped. He turned to Kenneth to issue some comment, only to be met by Kenneth's lips.

They were chapped; that was the first thing Alistair noticed. That would happen, he thought, standing in a draughty castle all day. It had made them rough, but they gave way readily when pressed by Alistair's own, softer pair. His beard tickled at Alistair's clean-shaven face, brushing against him like wool from half-a-dozen different angles.

Kenneth opened his mouth, and this was where Alistair's experience ended. He allowed the older man to lead him through this dance, his tongue sliding in like an assassin. His mouth on Kenneth's, Cecil's on his still-aching cock, the wet marks of Cecil's tongue on his arse drying cold, had all sent Alistair into a strange sort of fugue; so many different sensations vied for attention that he could not quite feel any of them, just a deeply pleasant dreamlike haze.

Alistair realized after a minute or so of this that he was coming. Cecil allowed the first few shots to fill his mouth before swallowing, but he took his face away once he'd drunk his fill, leaving the geyser to cover his face and upper torso. He looked as if someone had tried to make him into a candle. But even once he was completely coated, Alistair continued to fire. Cecil pointed it first at Alistair's own face, which had already been spattered from the first time, then toward Kenneth, who was ill-equipped to defend himself with one hand cupping Alistair's cheek and the other stroking himself languidly. Finally, once it had died down to a bubbling stream, Cecil capped the flow with his mouth again, swallowing twice more before it stopped.

Kenneth separated from the kiss after another eternity and looked around at the ruined royal upholstery, frowning. "We could probably have gone somewhere less... expensive."

"Self-cleaning," Alistair explained dizzily. "Magic thing. It'll be clear and dry inside an hour."

Cecil paused his reverie to snicker. "You'd know, Sire."

Alistair nodded happily. "I get to eat toast in bed! It's great!"

"At any rate," Kenneth interrupted, "I'd say it's time for the next segment of your tutorial."

"What?" Cecil squinted. "Oh yeah. I suppose we should get around to it, at that."

Kenneth still holding him close, Alistair felt a long, thick-knuckled finger slip into his still-relaxed hole. It felt strange, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. But as it shifted, he felt it brush something inside him, and a violent jolt of pleasure traced a line from Cecil's finger out Alistair's navel. It was almost too intense – it rattled his brain, pounded through his bones, crowded out his thoughts. He distantly felt slick fluid pouring from his cock, puddling in the lines of Kenneth's lap. Cecil dipped into it and coated his prick, then in one motion, leaned up to shove himself into Alistair's arse.

Alistair felt it in stages. First, the head pressed against his entrance and, after slipping along his tailbone a few times, pushed gradually in. Alistair felt it, this thing that had looked so tiny just moments before, still managing to fill him up like nothing he'd ever felt. He moaned, stretching around Cecil's cock just enough to feel the ache. Then, with a final burning push, the wide cap of the head popped through, and the rest slid in smoothly until he felt Cecil's bony hips against his own.

"_Maker_," Alistair heard himself groan.

"Y'alright there, Sire?" Cecil asked. "More or less."

"_More_," he grunted.

"Not really what I- well, fair enough at any rate." Cecil began to subtly move his hips back and forth, pressing up against Alistair's buttocks and receding. Alistair moaned louder, and the movement increased, Cecil withdrawing almost completely and then slamming back in. Abruptly, Cecil's cock began to ram up against that same thing he had brushed before, and Alistair nearly blacked out with sensation.

Alistair realized, in the brief moments where he could process thought, that he had misjudged the tool at hand. It didn't look impressive, but it was the perfect length to strike that spot, whatever it was, like a hammer to an anvil. Cecil pounded into it with every thrust, flooding him with sensation.

They must have made a pretty picture. Kenneth, sitting peacefully on the bed, holding Alistair in his lap. Alistair, lying over Kenneth’s knee, his mouth open and his eyes blank. Cecil, his face screwed up in concentration, jackrabbiting into Alistair like a man possessed.

Kenneth kissed Alistair softly, and the dam broke. As he sprayed Kenneth’s leg once again, Alistair felt his hole tighten around Cecil’s prick, drawing him into a shuddering orgasm. Cecil thrust wildly for a few seconds, filling Alistair’s arse with cum, then collapsed onto Alistair’s back.

Wordlessly, Kenneth repositioned the trio, lying on their sides with Alistair sandwiched between his guards. Kenneth’s chin rested comfortably on top of his head, and Alistair held Cecil in his arms like an unusually bony teddy bear. For the first time in quite some time, as Alistair fell asleep, he felt someone beside him.

***

“…and that’s what happened,” Alistair finished. He hung his head as Anora started at him. “I understand if you feel… betrayed. I just-”

“Shut up,” Anora said.

Alistair flinched. “What?”

“Shut up,” Anora repeated. “Stop apologizing, you tit. You finally got off your miserable arse and fucked someone! Maker, Alistair, I could _kiss_ you if I didn’t hate you so much!”

Alistair couldn’t help feeling somewhat unbalanced. “Are you saying… you _wanted_ this to happen?”

“Yes, you dimwit! Finally, you’ll be less bitter and frustrated all the time! We can stop having sex! I can start fucking Cauthrien again!”

“_What?!_”

His wife smiled, more genuine than he'd ever seen her, and clapped her hands. Her bodyguard and erstwhile chaperone stepped out from the shadows as she was wont to do.

"Ser," he said faintly. "Were you two always... involved? Why is Anora happy I cheated on her? I don't know what's going on!"

"My liege," Cauthrien repeated gently, "shut up and get the fuck out. I'm going to fuck your wife now."


End file.
